Foxhunt
by seventhpersephone
Summary: Death is sometimes a welcome relief - a ticket out. And sometimes, it just pulls us deeper.
1. 1999

_Preliminary Author's Notes: Hey everyone. This is my first fan story, a fun little project to shake off some creative cobwebs I've got going on. It started small but has turned into something pretty expansive. It'll be a long one, but I hope you enjoy it._

 _It falls under the loose definition of a "fandom pairing" as it focuses on two specific characters and filling in some gaps and maybe giving them an ending... maybe not. You'll see what I mean. We'll see how it goes._

 _A few notes about the story and the content - I probably won't include trigger warnings at the top of each chapter, but since you have to stop here first, I'll just put them here. Violence, gore, language, a lot of pretty explicit sexual content, sticky political issues of the day, racism... there's a lot of them here. Heavy on the cursing the sexual content. I'll try to handle them as sensitively as I can, but please understand that none of the viewpoints included here reflect my own. They're all purely for plot purposes._

 _A final note. I tend towards realism whenever I can, so it may run aground of what we're used to in the series. When in doubt, I try to make sense_ over _being beholden to canon._ _This first chapter is short one, just to get it rolling.  
_

 _Okay, enough talking. Here goes! Hope you enjoy.  
_

 _\- 7_

* * *

 _"I never meant to get us in this deep  
I never meant for this to mean a thing_

 _I got caught up by the chase_  
 _And you got high on every little game_

 _Oh, if I could go back in time_  
 _When you only held me in my mind_  
 _Just a longing_ gone _without a trace_  
 _Oh, I wish I'd never ever seen your face_

 _I wish you were the one  
Wish you were the one that got away"_

 _\- The Civil Wars_

* * *

 _1999, August_

Leon sat in the overstuffed leather chair, his feet braced wide on the floor, fingers laced between his knees. The doctor across from him drummed his pen on his clipboard and crossed his legs. A black trouser sock exposed itself from under his pant leg.

The clock on the wall ticked. They hadn't spoken in a solid minute or maybe longer. The silence was uncomfortable and pensive. Examining. Intrusive.

"I think it's time to talk about this woman you met," the doctor said. His accent was a blend of a few European dialects Leon didn't have the energy to place.

Leon's eyes flicked to the clock – 1542. A little over fifteen minutes until their weekly appointment was over. "Her name is Ada." He paused. "Was, Ada."

"Ada," the doctor corrected himself. "Tell me about her."

The truth was that Leon had forgotten most of what he knew, by force. He'd stuffed his memories down somewhere deep, slammed a cover over them. First, anger, consuming and directionless, a blackening heat rolling over everything about that week in September, curling it into ashes. Then sadness, the kind where nothing seemed worth the effort, then... nothing. Just a hole that you couldn't throw enough things into to crawl out of it. It ate his sense of perspective, warped his sense of justice, then had the temerity to ask for more, gluttonous.

Leon had no more.

"What do you want to know?" Leon said.

"She seems to play a very important part in this... _pivotal_ point in your life which you've discussed," the doctor said, the word _pivotal_ more like a spit of distaste. "but you've left her out nearly completely in your retelling."

Leon looked back at the floor. The rug was ornate and expensive, and he'd made very good friends with the scrollwork. He spent most of these appointments staring at it.

Her voice was becoming less distinct in his memories. He couldn't remember what color her eyes were, but he could recall with ease what she smelled like – orchids and pepper. The feel of her skin, soft, like petals. Everything else fell into disarray and fuzziness with time, blending with different women he'd met since. But that smell had never been replicated, burned somewhere deep behind his temples, never far away.

"Our appointments will help you immensely," the doctor pointed out, "but you will only get out of them what you put in, Leon. And as I am led to understand by your superiors, this... _incident_... is still interfering with your training. Post-traumatic stress syndrome is not a life sentence, but you have to want to move past it. If you don't, all the therapy in the world won't help."

Leon picked at the cuticle around his thumbnail, absentminded, somewhere far away.

"She needed me," Leon said. His sentence was interrupted with an involuntary swallow. "And I let her die."

The doctor's face, sallow and angular, stared at Leon from his badge. There was a jumble of numbers in black block letters beneath his photo, which announced him as a medical corps contractor, but only if you knew how to read the callsigns.

"You feel a great shame over this, by the sounds of it."

'Great' was the most impressive understatement Leon had ever heard. His first foray into a role he'd intended to occupy for the rest of his life had been underpinned by massive failure and catastrophe, failures which cost him so much that it was hard to tabulate it all, let alone attempt to replace it. The human cost was too high, and he was starting to realize that though he still walked and talked and sucked breath, he was included in that body count. He was mourning the death of the woman he loved, and the death of the man he thought he'd be - the life he'd thought he'd have, both snapped away with brutal cosmic indifference in a matter of hours.

"I'm not sure what I feel," Leon said. "It's a lot. Too much, sometimes." He heard that silvery giggle, tickling the back of his brain, felt his mouth turn down.

"Hm. I'm very sorry." The doctor said. "That sounds like a difficult thing to reconcile, Leon, considering your job – _service._ Protecting the people. Do you feel as if you perhaps struggle with the fact that you were the one to survive, and Ada did not?"

"I... maybe. This isn't the way it was supposed to happen." Leon said. "It was like no matter what I did..."

Leon trailed off. The doctor said nothing, allowing the silence to coax the rest of the sentence out of him.

"...I couldn't bring her with me. She was brought into my life just to... exist in that moment of time, and then be taken away." Leon's regret was immediate. It was melodramatic, bitter nonsense, and he knew it, but it was his reality. He could only speak to that reality.

"It sounds like you cared about her very much." The doctor wrote a note on his clipboard, with the mildest hint of interest in his voice.

"I know how it sounds," Leon said, defensive.

"How _does_ it sound?" The doctor asked.

Leon looked up at him, his posture slumped, defeated. "I knew her for less than a week."

The doctor waited again, allowing Leon time to find the words. The room around Leon seemed to squeeze in, cold and unfeeling. It was decorated with expensive-looking fixtures and drapes and rugs, but the drab utilitarianism of the Department of Defense peeked through in the gray paint on the walls, the metal door, harsh lighting, barred windows.

"It sounds desperate," Leon said. "Crazy, I guess. Like I'm crazy."

"You are very hard on yourself. The times in which you met sounded desperate and crazy, Leon. Disasters have borne much crazier things than becoming attached to someone in your care."

The doctor shrugged. "Human emotions generally have little regard for how we _think_ they should operate," he said. "They just do."

Leon digested it, turning it over in his head. He supposed it was true. "I'd really like to stop talking about this."

"In a moment. However..." the doctor said, "a question. You mentioned two other people, a woman, and a younger girl. Have they expressed similar sentiments about Ada?"

Leon didn't have to think about it. "They never met her." He said.

"They had no contact with her, at all?"

Leon shook his head. "No. Not that I knew of."

"And neither of these friends saw her die. That was... just you?"

Leon was slowly awakening to the direction this conversation was going. He felt his chest expanding with slow, deliberate breaths, the kind that his father had taught him, as a child, to use to calm himself down when he'd felt himself getting angry.

"That's right. Just me."

"This insight changes things, quite a bit." The doctor said with a sigh deep in his throat, settling back into his chair. "Do you think, Leon, that these other people who you met during the natural disaster perceive your relationship with Ada as..." he gesticulated with a hand, gesturing in a circle, like flipping an imaginary Rolodex for the right word. "Legitimate?"

Leon felt his top lip curl up by degrees. "What does that mean?"

"Stress can do things to a person's psyche that under normal circumstances may be out of character, is all I'm saying."

"No." Leon said, firmly, then caught himself. "I mean, yes. Yes, of course, they do. She _was_ real. What happened between us was definitely real. I _saw_ it. I was there."

The doctor looked at him, impassive. Leon's defense hung in the air, that same heavy, clinical silence attacking it in ways words couldn't.

"Hm. But – that's our time," said the doctor, "I feel we've made some real progress in this session, Leon. Next week, same time."

The doctor turned to his desk and immediately set upon his clipboard again, his back to Leon. Leon pushed himself out of the seat and started the long march back to his barracks, only half attentive to his surroundings, feeling as if he understood less about himself than he had when he'd walked in.


	2. Honeypot

_Chevy Chase Village, Maryland_

 _March_ _10_ _,_ _2014_

Leon couldn't find the right key on his ring. He placed his briefcase down, had to stuff the stack of his mail in his mouth to free both hands to work the door, fingers fumbling and clumsy in his exhaustion. The lock clicked and he shouldered the door open, casting a slice of misty spring light along the floor into the still blackness. He limped inside.

Leon hit the light switch and a floor lamp across the room blinked to life. A red light winked for his attention atop the island in his kitchen. Leon took a shuffling step forward, hit the "play" button on his voicemail caster, and leaned against the counter, winching against a deep pinch in his right shoulder. He picked up the first letter on the stack and tore it open.

A playful, high-definition jingle twinkled over the speakers. _"The time is… three… fifty five… AM. Good morning!"_

The first letter reminded Leon to pay his car insurance. Leon threw it onto the counter and picked up another envelope, tore it open and pulled the letter out.

 _"You have… t_ _wo_ _… unheard messages. First message sent,_ _March_ _third_ _at… six… oh eight, PM, from..."_ The machine rattled off a local area code and number.

"Heee-ey! It's Lori." A familiar female voice. Leon looked up at the machine. "Hope you've been well, um… I… I've been okay, just wondering how you are!"

The voice sighed.

"Here we go," Leon mumbled.

"Look, I – I've been trying to text you for weeks. I sent you an email and I even went by your place and you weren't there. I _really_ wanted to do this in person, but… look, Leon, you're a _great guy,_ and..."

It was at this point Leon tuned out. He read a letter about an increase in Home Owner's Association fees.

"...you said you'd be gone for work a lot… I didn't think you meant you'd be _gone_ , you know? I just… I'm sorry. This isn't going to work out. I really didn't want to do it this way. Please take care of yourself." An awkward half-word, like she wasn't sure if she should say anything else, and decided against it. Then, "Bye, Leon."

C _lick._

Leon's fatigue blunted any real sort of slight to his pride he would have felt about being dumped via voicemail in 2014. A break-up text may have carried more esteem.

 _Beeeeep._

 _"_ _End of message. To replay this message-"_

"Delete," Leon said.

 _"Message deleted. Next message, sent_ _March_ _…_ _eighth_ _… at four... twenty one... PM. From..."_ The number was one Leon didn't recognize, and wasn't from an area code he could recall.

"Leon! It's Claire. Claire Redfield! Hi!" She always introduced herself with her full name, even though they'd known each other for almost two decades. She had a very faint Southern drawl. _Hi_ came out like _ha._ "Looks like I caught you at a bad time, but, I got some big news and I'll be in town until the end of the week. Uh… let's meet up and… get a beer, okay? Hit me back when you got time, Hero. See you around!"

 _Beeeeep. "To replay this message-"  
_

"Save that one," Leon said.

 _"Message will be saved for... fourteen... days. End of messages."_

The house was silent again. Leon tried to finish the letter about donating money to the local animal shelter, but his eyes were starting to cross, the letters dancing together in a fuzzy lateral conga line. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and his forefinger.

The remaining sheaf of mail in his hand was thick and foreboding. It might as well have been a 500-page thesis paper. It could wait until he woke up. His bed was calling his name, seductive and alluring. His knees were burning and throbbing, upset that he wasn't lying prone on something soft already.

Leon dropped the rest of his mail on the counter, kicked off his shoes, and landed face-down on his bed, where he stayed for the next 12 hours.

* * *

 _Washington, D.C._

 _March 12, 2014_

Claire was sitting by herself in a booth. She spotted Leon and waved him over, with a huge, sunny grin on her face. She stood and spread her arms, closing and opening her hands, gesturing for him to bring it in for a hug. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed, rocking back and forth, as if she hadn't seen him for years and years.

"Ugh, you look amazing," Claire said, "how are you doing?!"

Leon laughed, patting her on the back. He wasn't a great hugger; he was never sure what to do or how long they were supposed to last. This one was lasting a little long. "Well as I can," he said, "it's good to see you."

"Here, sit, sit," Claire said, "we have lots to talk about. You still working for Uncle Sam?"

Leon slid into the booth across from her. "Sure am. Twenty years in 2019. I guess I'm a lifer now."

The waitress, an older woman in a pink-and-white smock, drifted over with a pen and notepad in hand. Claire ordered a strawberry milkshake, and Leon a cheeseburger. He figured Claire would eat his fries for him. This wasn't his first go round trying to eat around a woman.

They made small talk, discussed her flight, talked about sports. Sooner rather than later, Claire got right to the meat of the conversation: gossip.

"You're _still_ single?" Claire said, in disbelief.

Leon shrugged. "The dating pool here in D.C. needs a bit more chlorine, putting it lightly. Everyone knows everyone."

Claire wrinkled her nose. "Ew. It's like fucking everyone you see by six degrees of separation. You get to feeling like community property."

Leon paused. " _That_ was my twenties."

Claire threw her balled-up napkin at him. "You're gross."

Leon made a sound that was half-laugh and half-scoff. "Whatever you say." He flicked the wrapper of his straw off the table and hit her smack on the forehead with it.

"Son of a bitch!" Claire swiped at her forehead, laughing.

Their food was delivered, distracting her and saving Leon from further escalation. Claire spied his plate.

"That looks good. Can I have a fry?"

Leon leaned back, an elbow over the back of the booth, and pushed his plate to her. Sometimes being so good with the ladies was a curse.

"So how's… uh… Ben?"

"Brian," Claire corrected him. "He's great. But-"

Here it went. Leon listened.

"He's like – too great? Like he treats me really well, but it's like… _too_ well. Does that make sense?"

"No," Leon said through a bite of cheeseburger.

"I don't know how to explain it." Claire said.

"You want my advice?" Leon said. Claire nodded. "You see that thing you're doing right now? Stop doing that."

"Oh! Speaking of relationships! I forgot." Claire stuffed a handful of fries into her mouth and then rifled through her briefcase. She produced what looked like a greeting card in a green envelope. "Short notice, but -" she swallowed, "from my charming brother. He didn't know if you'd want to come, considering the fact that you always end up kicking him in the head when you see each other. So I suppose I'm the bearer of bad news if you say no."

Leon put down his cheeseburger, wiped his hands on his napkin, took the envelope, and opened it. Claire shimmied in her seat, excited to see his reaction.

 _Together with their families,_

 _Chris_ _topher Samuel_ _Redfield and Jillian_ _Andrea_ _Valentine hereby_

 _request_ _the honor of your presence at their marriage, Sunday, March 18, 201_ _4_

 _at seven pm._

 _Reception to follow._

Leon quirked an eyebrow at Claire. "Is this for real?"

Claire's smile fell; her shimmies drew to a stop. "Well, yeah."

"Chris and Jill? Aren't they partners?"

"Pff. _Partners._ " Claire made air quotes with her fingers. "They've been _partners_ forever," she said, "but he's always been in love with her. The whole bullshit that guys do to protect their egos, always pining, never trying. It was pathetic."

Leon made a noise of surprise, _huh._

"They've been a thing on the low for a bit. Didn't want it to interfere with work, although I think everyone knew. He took the whole… 2008 thing really hard."

Kijuju, where Jill had fallen to her supposed death and then popped up later, working for Wesker. It was too close to his own experience – Leon had no comment on it that wouldn't be about him, so he took a bite of his cheeseburger and made a thoughtful noise.

"I was worried about him for a while, you know… hurting himself." Claire's expression went dark and she stirred her milkshake. "I think he sees this as his second chance."

"It's one not a lot of people get. It's a lot to go through." Leon agreed. "Well, that's great. I think it'll be good for him."

"She proposed, you know," Claire said. "It was really cute."

"And Chris wants _me_ there?" Leon laughed.

"Believe it or not, he likes you. Chris doesn't really have a lot of friends. He's... intense."

"I'll say. He punched me in the face."

"But people he can trust stay on his good list whether or not he's punched you. He's punched basically everyone. Even Jill, and he's marrying her." Claire paused. "Wait, that sounds bad."

"Well… I'll see what the schedule says, but I wouldn't mind going. Sounds nice. They deserve some peace and happiness."

Claire smiled. "I think that will make him happy. Thanks, Leon."

* * *

 _Sacramento, California_

 _March 14, 2014_

Juliette kept tabs on e-mails. She was the e-mail lady. It seemed pretty exciting at first – getting to read through people's personal thoughts, your fingers rifling through their brain, running over their most private dirty laundry, plucking out the pieces you wanted with nobody the wiser. It just turned into an extravaganza of gross nudes between fat Mafiosos and their equally gross mistresses, and personality quizzes. _What member of the FRIENDS cast are you? Click to find out!_

They loved personality quizzes. And coupons.

The Company kept quiet tabs on known terrorists, federal witnesses, cops, politicians – everyone who was everyone had a paper trail, and they watched it. It was illegal but also effective, and with the appearance of anonymity, tongues were let loose in a way that she couldn't believe on a medium where every character was committed to archive, forever. Coordinates of their houses, plans to knock off people they knew, chummy, knowing jokes about very illegal insider trading. Human stupidity knew no bounds when given the appearance of invincibility.

The scrawls of code streamed across the screen at a pace that appeared slow, but in reality was just fast enough that you could skim it and and be onto the next piece with no break in the flow. Juliette took off her glasses and blinked, hard, then put them back on. It was just in time to catch two pieces of text.

 **Redfield**

 **Fed**

She hit an F key, stopped the scrawl, and rewound it back. There were false starts like this all the time; you might see something you thought was suspect, but it turned out to be your mind either splicing words together into some kind of portmanteau that didn't mean anything, or it was two unrelated statements close enough together that your brain put context there that didn't exist.

This, however, was neither. An email string unfolded and slowly crawled up her screen.

 **Our source tells us there's a big to-do going to be happening down in Austin on 3-18 with quite a few Raccoon survivors in attendance. A few lower-profile members of the group might be convinced to crack the location of a "package" or two, given enough pressure. We had someone tail one of the Redfields and they got it all on camera.**

 _ **Risky. The BSAA is going to be there if the Reds are involved.**_

 **Risky yeah but think, if enough people are there our fed buddy is probably gonna show up. This could be a good chance to finally get that dealt with. Plus wherever the BSAA is, packages aren't far away.**

What sort of package would a Raccoon City survivor know the location of that was so important? What "Fed buddy"?

To her mind, there was one federal contact the Redfields had, and even that was tenuous – Leon Scott Kennedy. Who else could it be? He was the biggest fish in that whole motley crew. Along with Ashley Graham, he'd been in the news and all over the tabloids at every grocery store checkout aisle in 2004. They were domestic heroes for about a news cycle, and then it was business as usual – football stars beating their wives, senators found in torrid affairs with boys half their age, a starlet or two being locked up for snorting half their weight in coke and then wrapping their Lexus around a light pole. Aside from maybe Albert Wesker himself, Leon was the most notable federal presence she could think of. But Albert Wesker was dead, as dead as anyone in this business stayed. _Persona non grata_ for reasons of revenge such as these – he'd already had his face revenged in by Chris Redfield, after almost 12 years of jousting.

"Fed Buddy".

Of course, it could have been someone else. But what was the likelihood? And what could be big enough that would draw them all to Texas, of all places? Raccoon Survivors were adult orphans, they were reformed cat burglars with no families, they were all transplants with one thing in common: very few had anyone that would miss them, and that was by design. When you were testing how fast someone could die at the hands of your biological warfare, you didn't want people whose relatives or spouses would come knocking, wondering what had happened.

They had to mean bioweapons, or at least something related to biological agents – there was nothing else the BSAA and Raccoon City survivors had in common, other than PTSD and a tendency towards uncontrolled alcoholism.

Juliette pulled her notepad over and wrote as fast as she could, trying to jot down the details before she forgot them.

"You got something good?" Brad Hodgkins asked, drifting over to her desk. Juliette shushed him without looking up.

"Guess so." He said, offended, and disappeared.

Juliette pulled up a chat window, and typed in the name of one of her coworkers – Natalie Cormer. Natalie was in Deep Intel; she was the woman you didn't ever want to piss off, because she knew everything about you, or could find it if she wanted to. Good thing she was a sweet lady who could pass as your standard issue California valley girl with all the trimmings and hobbies to match, with no interest in life ruining that Juliette could sense.

 **Natalie, hey, I need a favor. Can you run a travel record for me on a few SSNs?**

Natalie was probably on break, because it took her a few minutes to respond.

 _ **I can do that. Ur buying the margaritas on Thursday though.**_

Juliette laughed.

 **You're the best**

 _ **I know. SSN?**_

 **I've got 3. Here.**

It was a simple task, judging by how fast Natalie was able to copy and paste screenshots of flight itineraries into their chat window.

Chris Redfield was the least mobile of the three. He hadn't traveled anywhere in about eight months, at least by plane. He was scheduled to fly into Austin from New York via Fort Lauderdale on March 16.

Jill Valentine had been to Seattle, Paris, and London in the last month and a half. Not surprising – she'd been benched from operative duty to take an officer role within the BSAA, hung up the guns and hobnobbed for a living, using her name to curry clout within the emerging international bioweapons resistance. No doubt those were for business and not for pleasure – each flight returned back to New York within two days of departure, with nothing declared upon arrival. She had a flight booked on March 16 as well, which after cross-referencing, was the same flight as Redfield's, their seats together.

Leon Kennedy was without question the roving target. In the last six months he'd traveled to Belmopan, Belize; Nairobi, Kenya; back and forth to Quantico, Virginia three times; a city in Iceland that Juliette couldn't pronounce if she tried, for a single night; Queensland, Australia; Fort Campbell for less than a day; and Buenos Aires, Argentina. Argentina was a 5-day long trip.

He also had a flight booked for March 17 to Austin, nonstop, and then back to DC the next day.

It was true. The intel was solid.

 **Thanks, lady. You're a lifesaver.**

 _ **;)**_

Juliette locked her computer, stood from her desk, and excused herself to the ladies' room. She walked down the hallway in the dim light, her reflection following her on a slant in every direction in the thick tinted glass that lined the hallways.

Collecting the information was the easy part. Deciding what to do with it would be the real challenge. She stared at herself for a long time in the mirror, and decided with a heavy heart that it was someone else's problem. It had to be.

* * *

 _Sacramento, California_

 _March 15, 2014_

That night, Juliette lay in bed. She was naked, alone, and awake, two hours past her normal bed time. The weather was warm for Spring, the window beside her bed open. The large box fan mounted in the window frame threw spinning slants of light and shadow over her.

On one hand, if there was ever a party that was ill-advised to attack without the help of a small army – it was the Redfield Wedding. The NRA probably had about 75% of its national union dues coming from that event alone. There was absolutely no chance of anyone being taken out without a fight and a couple of murder charges.

But was that enough? Would that guarantee anyone's safety?

What if they didn't have the same information she did? Did anyone even know that something was about to happen?

The most important question burst through all her impotent questioning like an intrusive thought - was she willing to gamble Leon's safety on that?

She wasn't.

It still meant something, still banged around in her brain, something in the sentimental core of her mind was nagging, pleading, justifying. That nagging included memories, long buried, but inescapable.

 _They'd made the mistake of trying to cross the city to get to the police station, where Ada was sure she'd find her answers, and realized with dread that the situation was much worse in a matter of hours than they could have imagined._

 _They came for her and her legs froze, bonded to the street at the soles of her feet. She'd never seen so many, not so close; she could smell them, the wind carrying the scent of rotten fruit, gasoline, and burning wood. They reached for her with outstretched begging fingers, stumbling towards her one limping step at a time. Their moans were a chorus: some angry, some pleading, some a loud, mindless drone. They blended together into a wall of sound that became louder_ _still._

 _She couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't remember who she was. Her heart hammered in her chest, as if begging her to_ _run_ _, trying to remind her she was still alive._

 _That was when he grabbed her, his hand around her wrist, and pulled._

 _"I've got you, come on." Leon said, taking off at a sprint, dragging her behind him. She'd stumbled, falling and skinning her knee on the wet concrete and broken glass, but he didn't leave her behind. It would have been easier for him to, but each time he stopped and doubled back for her, ushering her forward, his own safety forgotten._

 _They ran an endless marathon in those days. Vaulting over signs that yelled at them in bright orange and black stripes "STREET CLOSED", ducking under fallen light poles, squeezing through the spaces between abandoned vehicles. It took Ada precisely one curious glance into a derelict Ford Focus and what it contained in the infant-sized carseat behind the driver to learn that she should keep her eyes ahead._

 _Sometimes they would get lucky and find a balcony system on the side of an apartment building. Sometimes they would get unlucky and find nothing, sprinting full-tilt from locked store shutter to ransacked grocery store to burning barricade, and spend hours just surviving. Not even surviving – just "not dying", until luck, finite and fickle, had its fill of them and turned her back._

 _They were countless, pressing in front of them, fifty feet away. Leon paused, wheeling back, turned and pulled Ada down a nearby alleyway. Ada looked back, their pursuers losing ground but making up for it in hellish persistence. She and Leon would tire long before they would._

 _A cluster of them appeared at the opposite entrance to the alleyway, turning towards the noise of Ada and Leon's footsteps. Beset on all sides, Leon looked around desperately for some kind of out, and spotted a small building across the street. A gas station, long since abandoned: the windows boarded, curling graffiti on every available surface, a space for rent sign outside in red and white._

 _He yanked on Ada's arm again and picked up speed, barely juking past the pairs of outstretched, groping hands as the group descended on the mouth of the alleyway. Ada felt one caress her face, skin cold and spongy, and wanted to vomit._

 _"We'll hole up there," Leon said, pointing to the building. "Come on, not too much further."_

 _They ran as fast as they could, and she had to work double-time to keep up with him. He was tall – six foot two if she had to guess – and his strides were so much longer than hers that it felt like she was weighing him down._

 _Leon stopped himself in a skid in front of the door, tried it to open it and was met with firm resistance. Locked. He shoved his shotgun into her hands. "Cover me while I open this. Can you use it?"_

 _Ada debated on whether to lie, but only for a second. There were at least thirty now, shuffling in concert, calling to them. She checked to make sure a shell was chambered, and leveled the gun, braced it against her shoulder. "Got it. Hurry."_

 _Leon stepped back, kicked the door beside the knob. It shuddered in its casing, a crunch of rotten wood deep in its layers. It took one more kick to swing it open, and Ada passed his gun back. He swept the inside of the room, then pushed her inside first, turning and aiming the business end at the horde, stepping backwards until he was sure they were both safely inside. Leon slammed the door, and they searched for something to barricade it with – they ran to a nearby vending machine, dead and caked with dust, shouldered it over with a massive, deafening crash, and pushed it in front of the door._

 _They had a moment to breathe, but only a moment. It felt like they'd been running for hours._

 _An assembly of angry hands slammed on the door, meeting hard resistance. The noise outside was muffled and incessant, a crowd begging for answers, disappointed, starving, and bewildered. It stood true against the blows, quivering by degrees, but the machine was strong enough to withhold the force, for now. The windows were barred from the inside. Luck may not have totally abandoned them._

 _A figure, previously concealed by shadows and attracted by the noise, turned slowly to face them. She lunged, hands outstretched, for Ada, and Leon stepped between them, slamming the stock of his gun into the woman's temple. Something crunched and she spun to the floor, twitching. They both stared at her body, in shock. Ada thought she saw Leon's hands shaking._

 _"It looks like there's a maintenance closet back there," he said, "That's where they lock away caustic chemicals, so it probably has a reinforced door. Let's hole up until they leave. This doesn't feel secure."_

 _"You know a lot about gas stations," Ada said, laughing._

 _"I wasn't always the man you see today," he said, eyes scanning as they crept through the store, Ada huddled behind him. He touched the door to the closet and pushed it open, gestured for her to be quiet. He banged his fist against it._

 _There was no response. Leon waved her in, and Ada sidled around him, turned on the light, dim and greasy and flickering._

 _"That should slow them down, at least." Leon said, following her in and locking the door behind him. He bent over and put his hands on his knees, puffing for breath, put his gun down. It clattered against the cement floor. He wiped his face of sweat with the sleeve of his shirt._

 _"We make a pretty good team." Ada said, and gave him a smile._

 _Leon returned it; his was equal parts insecure and hopeful. "Y-yeah. I think so too."_

 _The silence between them hummed._

 _"You know," Ada said, drawing closer until her arm brushed against his, "I've never seen you do that before. With the door."_

 _Leon looked down at where their arms were touching with sudden, thoughtful discomfort, and took a deep breath._

 _Ada laughed. "What's that look for?"_

 _Leon reached for her, suddenly, and pulled her into a kiss, a hand on the side of her neck. Ada's eyes opened wide, and then she relaxed, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding._

 _"Sorry," he said, pulling away, his eyes cast down. "I shouldn't have done that."_

 _Ada grabbed him by the sides of his face and pulled him back to her, and he came willingly._

 _He was good at it, had no doubt been trained well by the girls before her. The first time was romantic, but survival instinct and adrenaline melted it down in short time to something hungry and intense. She tried to assert herself, but he'd ended up pinning her against the wall, his face in her throat and her dress pushed up around her waist, fucked her like he hated her. She'd had to put her hand over her mouth to keep from making noise that would attract unwanted attention._

 _When they were finished, Leon stumbled away from her and leaned against the worktable, trying to catch his breath. He tucked his shirt back in and cinched up his belt, and his silence felt a lot like shame._

 _"Where the hell did that come from?" She'd asked, her hair puffed up like some species of awkward bird. Leon just shrugged, and suggested they get some rest while they were able to._

 _They sat against the wall, and Leon sunk into sleep by degrees, his head drifting down to rest against Ada's. She considered it a long time and then put her head on his shoulder, his soft half-snores and the warmth of his body her baseline for the next few hours. When she was sure he was asleep, she looped one of her fingers with his, and closed her eyes._

Frustrated with herself, she threw off her bedsheets and got to her feet, walked to her closet, flung the door open.

She stared into its contents, the fan's breeze toying with the feathery, sharp layers of jet black hair around her face. A large black leather tote bag, zipped at the very top, and a simple black leather briefcase sat together on the top shelf of her closet. They were relics of a life she was trying very hard to leave behind, one always seemed to chase her even in what she thought were moments of respite. You could squirrel away and hide, but her past had a nose like a bloodhound, her scent seemingly amplified by peace and happiness. It scared her out of every hole she tried to rest in, kept her running, ears always to the wind for the next sound of danger, ready to bolt at a moment's notice.

It was, and had always been, hard to leave Ada Wong behind for long. She was like all great and inconvenient love affairs: she started as something casual and easy to discard, and then grew into an uncomfortably important part of Juliette's life. Eventually, it was hard to decipher where Juliette stopped and Ada began. Juliette had become the alter-ego, even though she'd been present for roughly 23 years longer than Ada had. It wasn't useful anymore, it wasn't necessary anymore, and it wasn't fun anymore. It hadn't been fun for a long time.

But she had her uses, as inconvenient of a truth as that was.

Juliette sighed through her nose. Her chest was tight, her throat dry. She wished she'd never seen that report, that its scrawling text had caught someone else's eye. Plausible deniability would be all it took, then it really would have been someone else's problem.

She was never so lucky.

She took her phone off of her desk and tried to dial Charlie. The call was immediately sent to voicemail, which she supposed she should have expected.

"Charlie, look, I know you're probably still mad at me, but I have to leave on a business trip for a few days," Juliette lied, "last minute. I'll be back soon. I promise." She paused. "I love you." She hung up the phone.

One last dance with an old friend, she supposed, for a good cause. Then her conscience would be clean, these tools would go into some river somewhere, and her affair with Ada Wong would be finished forever.

Juliette grabbed her bag, an outfit, and left for the bathroom.

* * *

 _Wheeling, West Virginia_

 _March 15, 2014_

"Hey, h-hey, Chamberlain?"

Chamberlain was busy smoking a cigarette with his one remaining hand. A bottle of whiskey was open on his desk, and he was watching a movie with his boots kicked up, his face a network of sunken lines and deep creases. In the half-light of his office, he looked like a statue, stony and pockmarked with age.

"What?" Chamberlain said, in a demanding yell. He was a bear of a man with the voice to match. It bounced off the walls and Ivan shrunk down by inches.

"I uh-" Ivan said, "The guys you hired, they left you a message. But it didn't make any sense."

Chamberlain took a long, quiet drag of his smoke. Then, "I've a question for you, Ivan."

"Yes sir?"

"Do you reckon you're smarter than I am?"

"What? No. _No_. 'Course not. Never."

"Right. You're not. So why'dyou figure you're fit to tell _me_ what'll make sense to me, and what won't?" He leaned forward onto the desk. A coil of smoke snaked past his face.

"I didn't mean that sir! No. No respect mean. I'm sorry sir, I just-"

"Ivan."

Meekly, "Yes, sir?"

"Just tell me what the fuckin' message said."

"Th-they uh, they said'at someone 'stuck their hand in the honeypot'." Ivan made a face.

Chamberlain was prepared to yell again, but he puffed the breath out through his nose, smiling, peaceful. The expression looked alien and somehow even more threatening. "S'at so?"

"Uh… y-yeah. They wanted me to tell you."

"Hm." Chamberlain leaned back, and smiled at the ceiling. "Well isn't that just it?"

"Um… d'you want me to-"

"Send Larissa in here when you see her." Chamberlain cut him off. "You can go now."

Ivan didn't need to be told twice: he retreated as fast as he was given permission to, the door squeaking shut behind him.

Hugo Chamberlain chuckled, folded his one remaining hand over his belly, and fantasized about which one of Ada's arms he'd chop off first.


	3. Destination Unknown

_Author's Note: I've gotten a few emails for an update. I apologize sincerely – I wrote two chapters then dropped off the face of the Earth. Life has happened and gotten REALLY crazy. I'm talking bonkers… but I'm back now! And I come bearing a 15-page gift!_

 _Also-this is really cool! This story is getting way more views and visitors than I thought it would. Almost 70 individual visitors in five days, and even more views than that. That may not sound like much to some people, but the fact that even 1 person is reading my stuff let alone 60-some in a single week just blows me away. Hopefully you guys that are reading it are enjoying it so far. I appreciate all the reviews! Thank you for being here! Grateful we get to go on this little journey together, and for each of you._

 _Thanks for your patience! Let's do this!_

 _Austin, Texas_

 _March 18, 2014_

 _6:42pm_

There were five. Three soldiers – two men, one woman - parked on a rooftop across the street from the church that matched the address Ada had been given, and two men positioned on either side with sniper rifles. One on the roof of a tall bank building a few hundred feet away, another parked in the window of a nearby apartment complex.

They were novices, at the very most. The man in the window was wearing a watch with a glass face, which reflected every speck of light that fell across him, and the other was uncovered, black business suit against the grey concrete of the rooftop. Their weapons and clothing said "professional", but their functional field skills suggested a lot of money for the window dressing, with not a lot of experience to put under it. Upon admiring the lines on the woman's suit, Ada spotted a patch of a bright color sewn onto the right sleeve. Two crossed swords under a crucifix. She frowned.

"Now, what are you doing all the way out here…?" Ada asked, to nobody in particular.

Ada sat in her hotel room, on the top floor, with drapes drawn. She'd asked for a smoking room, which meant she wanted a room where the windows opened – they normally didn't, not in hotels like this. When the clerk informed her they were a no smoking establishment, it sounded more like a challenge, a step in a dance, than a definitive statement of fact. $2000 was not a lot of money, but it was enough for a woman making minimum wage to suddenly materialize a room where the window lock hadn't yet been seen by maintenance. A room she'd previously forgotten existed that enough greenbacks just happened to shake free in her memory.

The room was blackened around a single rectangle of blinking blue-grey light - the screen of Ada's small handheld computer, linked to a camera the size of a pencil eraser that she'd placed outside the drapes on the windowsill. She'd been watching since this morning, and the soldiers in the business suits had been watching since noon. Victoria – Ada's prized sniper rifle who'd been so long in service, so thoroughly customized that she had a hard time recalling what stock body the gun started as – was propped and loaded on her tripod, by the window behind the curtain. For this assignment, Victoria been freshly oiled, serviced, and cleaned, tested and re-tested.

There had to be more of the soldiers. Nobody who had even the slightest idea who Leon Kennedy was, who his friends were, or what they were capable of, would send only five people. Not unless they were stupid, or suicidal, which admittedly didn't rule out a lot of organized crime syndicates.

A steady parade of taxis were pulling in from off-screen, stopping mid-street to offload their passengers and then leaving as soon as the doors were shut. Ada settled down behind Victoria, lifted the drape and placed it over the barrel of the gun. She set the computer aside and aligned her eye with the viewfinder, clicking the dial until the picture was large enough to make out sufficient detail, and waited.

Out of one taxi climbed a familiar figure, tall and well-dressed, all wide shoulders and long arms. Leon straightened his suit jacket, pulled the cuffs down.

The soldiers on the roof watched, body language unimpressed and distracted. The man in the apartment window was puffing on a cigarette, a greasy trail of smoke coiling into the evening air. The man on the roof was watching through his own viewfinder, his finger off the trigger of his rifle.

A man Ada didn't recognize greeted Leon with a casual handshake, a hand braced on the back of Leon's shoulder. They talked for a brief moment, then walked into the church together without incident, Leon taking the steps two at a time with his long strides. When he was inside, Ada turned her gun back to the man with the cigarette, only his disembodied nose and cheek exposed behind the angle of the building.

The church bells started ringing, loud and deep, signaling the 15-minute point before the ceremony was to start, and Ada took a slow breath. She leaned on the windowsill, into the weight of the gun, counted her heartbeats against the wood, paused.

Then, she pulled the trigger.

The recoil rocked the rifle back against her shoulder, hard, shaking her down to her bones. A spray of dark pink mist puffed from behind the windowsill of the apartment complex nearby, hitting her target but missing the wood behind him, a shot that sliced through a very small space. An outstretched arm landed against the bottom of the sill, ending in a point towards the sky as if indicating the stars. She pulled on the metal rod on the side of her rifle, racked another round into the chamber.

Ada took another deep breath, turned her gun slowly on its tripod, and adjusted the viewfinder to focus on the man hunkered on the rooftop. He recoiled as if someone had boxed him in the ear, putting his hand up to the side of his head and mouthing a word Ada couldn't make out. He'd heard the shot through his earpiece, and was struggling to plug his other ear against the bells to hear a response that wasn't coming. Ada waited for a second ring of the churchbell, and squeezed off another shot. The top portion of his head was sheared off into a v-shaped splatter of gore, the bullet leaving a deep crater in the cement. The man's body rolled onto its back, hands and feet outstretched.

The three in the business suits were standing idly, watching the procession, arms crossed. The woman said something while indicating a female guest, and the man beside her nodded.

Ada raised her head from her viewfinder. It would make more sense to intercept Leon on the way out when his acuity and reflexes were bound to be less sharp, thanks to fatigue or alcohol. Something still smelled off about this situation, and her internal voice solely responsible for self-preservation didn't scream; but it did start trying to get her attention, warning about the good possibility of a fashionable early exit.

Then one of the men placed down his briefcase, opened the clasps, and started divvying what looked a lot like grenades between the three of them.

The voice of self-preservation in Ada's head fell silent, shouted down by the tedious and predictable consideration of the greater good.

Ada sighed from deep in her chest, shaking her head, resigned. "Just can't stay out of trouble," she mumbled.

Whether this was the entire cohort or not, it would be a good start. She needed at least one of them alive, and their lackadaisical body language suggested they were unaware of what had already transpired to their companions high above. They were out here alone and didn't know it, which worked to her advantage, but only until they tried to contact them.

Ada got to work dismantling her gun, and though she was wearing gloves since her arrival, wiped down the surfaces she had touched with a buffing cloth, shut the window and left the room. Ada waited until the hallway was clear and turned back through the maintenance exit of the building, towards the stairwell that would lead her to the street.

* * *

 _Austin, Texas_

 _March 18, 2014_

 _6:57pm_

Leon sat in the small crowd, shoulder-to-shoulder on each side with chattering strangers. A hushed conversational buzz hovered over the crowd, and though he took a cursory look around, he could locate no familiar faces.

Leon peered up and around at the chapel; cozy, laid with white stonework and lit with mismatched clusters of white pillar candles. Dark stained glass windows loomed high on the walls, half-illuminated in shades of purple and blue and green against the sunset outside, ominous in their antiquated severity. The Virgin Mary, a figure familiar from the Sundays of Leon's childhood, stared over the ceremony with her hands clasped in piety, her face suggesting she was nonetheless unmoved.

The soft chatter ceased with a whoosh when a man, thin and birdlike with a long ponytail and glasses, played a cascade of warm, silvery notes on an acoustic guitar connected to an amplifier, from the church pulpit. The crowd was silenced, informed without words that the ceremony was underway. He played a song that was slow, and to Leon's ears, sounded like nostalgia and tenderness, plucking at the strings with experienced control.

Claire was wearing a green dress and missing her normal ponytail, in favor of a spill of auburn curls over one shoulder. A tall, bear-like man with a thick, dark beard joined her. He was wearing a black tuxedo, his tie matching the color of her dress. Leon realized, belated, that they were the entirety of the auxiliary wedding party. The two stood on opposite sides of the pulpit, and Claire gave the man a nervy grin of excitement. He returned it with a smile that was both paternal and gentle, crinkling the network of deep crows' feet around his eyes.

It was the groom's turn, and though he tried, Chris was a man who never seemed to be able to shake the determination from his walk. Chris looked straight ahead, intentionally not looking at the crowd; Claire rubbed his shoulder when he approached, leaned in to whisper a few motivational words, and he nodded, his expression serious.

Jill walked down the aisle by herself. She wore a short dress in a similar shade of off-white, cut to drape beneath her breasts. She held a bouquet of white and green flowers. Leon looked back to Chris, who looked like he might pass out at any given moment.

The vows were brief, heartfelt, with a theme of protection, loyalty, and duty. There was a palpable connection that sung between Chris and Jill that Leon wasn't sure how he missed. He'd been to many weddings, seen many happy couples take vows in front of a crowd, but didn't know if he'd ever seen two people look at each other with such plain and naked devotion. They were responding to the officiant with words, but they were alone in this chapel, their hands clasped together, everyone else forgotten.

Beside them, Claire wiped her eyes, and almost missed her cue to pass them the rings.

When the ceremony was over, Chris grabbed his new wife and planted a huge kiss directly on her mouth. The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles, a standing ovation. Beside Leon, a man with unkempt, dark hair and a five o'clock shadow wolf-whistled so loud it hurt Leon's ears.

"IT'S ABOUT DAMN TIME!" The man yelled with his hands cupped around his mouth, and a loud peal of laughter erupted over the applause.

Jill raised she and Chris' clasped hands like she was crowning a boxing champion, and the cheers got louder.

* * *

Ada sidled along the grate that ringed the squat brick building, which upon further inspection appeared to be another installment in a cluster of worn-down apartment complexes. It was tall enough that any occupants on the roof couldn't be viewed from the street, which was likely all they cared about.

The soles of her boots pressed against the inner edge, her body wedged against the wall. These grates, made of hollow metal, rang like a bell with every step – slow and silent was preferable by orders of magnitude to fast and noisy.

She waited for what could have been hours, listening the moronic drone of conversation from the people above her; who was fucking who in the organization, who got promoted and didn't deserve it, who habitually showed up late but got away with it because they were the "favorite". Organized crime syndicates tended to be breeding grounds for drama and power struggles, at least on the lower levels, where upward mobility was crucial and rare. This one was no different.

One of the men walked in her direction. A cigarette butt tumbled end over end through the air and plinked off of the metal scaffolding in front of her. Ada turned, leaned her chest against the wall. His boots scuffed against the cement as he turned around, and she leapt, thrust a hand up, grabbed him by his belt and pulled him backwards, dropping him with a flailing scream to the concrete so many feet below.

A beat of silence elapsed. Ada crouched and listened.

"Did… did you hear that…?" Asked the woman. Then, her voice tiny and vulnerable, "Where… where's Daniel?"

"Shit… oh, shit. Daniel?!" The man called. "Fuck. _Fuck!_ "

Ada waited until their shoes scuffed away from her position, jumped up, grabbed the ledge, and pulled herself up into a crouch on the edge. The woman was looking in her direction, the man's back turned. The woman gasped and unholstered her pistol, but Ada was already upon him; she lunged and grabbed him but he was quick, wiry and strong, and twisted out of her grasp with a hard jerk. He took a haymaker swing at her, that had it connected, would have had her seeing stars into next Tuesday. Unfortunately for him, it had no chance of connecting, not today, not in any other life.

Ada wound back out of the way, his knuckles grazing the fabric of her shirt over her breasts. She slapped her hand onto his upper back, over his shoulderblade, to give her knee a target. She twisted on her heel, slamming her opposite knee directly up and into his side, over his kidney. He crumpled sideways with a cry of pain, his knee buckling, and Ada grabbed him by a rough fistful of his hair, unholstering her pistol with the other hand.

"Evening," she said, over his shoulder, the wind tousling her hair into her face. He wore a pollutive combination of inexpensive cologne and cigarette smoke. " _Nice_ suit. Tom Ford?" The man grimaced, and sniffed hard with a muffled grunt of pain.

"Well," Ada said, nodding to the pistol in the woman's hands, "You know how this works. Drop it."

"No," she said, looking back and forth between Ada and her hostage as if asking for a cue or some sort of guidance, rocking to and fro from foot to foot. She was young, with long red hair, bright grey eyes. The job hadn't had time to un-pretty her yet. "F-fuck you. You drop _your_ gun."

Ada laughed. "Easy to say when you're not the one with the muzzle to your head. I highly suggest you encourage your friend to be more empathetic to your situation, Tom Ford."

"Rhea," the man said, his voice a strained warning, hands in the air. "D _o what she says_ , okay?"

Rhea gave her head a little sideways shake, her expression tortured.

"It's a good idea." Ada agreed.

Rhea swallowed hard and then crouched, slow and unsure. The pistol clicked against the pavement as she set it down. She backed away.

"Good girl. Compliant. I like that." The man shifted, Ada yanked back hard on his head as a warning, and he was still again. "We should cover some basics first. If you give me the answers I want, this charming gentleman here will go free." Ada said. "Do we understand each other?"

The woman's eyes shifted to him again, then back to Ada. "Y-yes."

"Good. Do you know who I am?"

"You're Ada."

"Ada who?"

"Ada Wong."

"That's right. How many of you are there?"

Rhea's eyes flashed to the man. "It's just us three."

"Just three." Ada repeated, sounding impressed.

The woman nodded. "Y-yeah."

"Rhea," Ada said, "Do you think it's a good idea to lie to me when I have my gun against your friend's head?"

Silence. The woman licked her lips, her eyes darting to the man and then back again.

"Do _you_ think it's a good idea, Tom?"

"There's fifteen of us, okay? Fifteen." He said. "You got your information, now let me go."

" _Fifteen_ ," Ada said, with a note of amusement. "Five times the original number, Rhea. That's quite a miscalculation."

Rhea swallowed. "I-"

"Is he correct?" Ada asked Rhea.

"Yes." A note of defeat. "But-"

Ada shot him. Rhea started, her eyes wide and her mouth open, and screamed.

"Why did you do that?! Oh my God!" She screamed again.

He fell to his knees, then his head – what was left of it – hit the ground with a hollow thump. "I find telling people not to lie to you doesn't carry the same illustrative properties as showing them what happens when they do." Ada said.

Rhea lunged for the pistol on the ground. Ada aimed her own downwards, cracking off a single shot through Rhea's outstretched hand, blasting a chunk of meat and blood the size of a golfball onto the roof below her. Gun forgotten, Rhea clutched her hand, screaming, and fell onto her knees. Ada circled out of the pool of spreading blood with practiced balletic grace, put her boot against the side of Rhea's head, and pushed her down, hard.

"Reach for it again and I'll give you and Tom over there a matching set." Ada warned, the mirth drained from her voice. "Do you understand?"

Rhea nodded, sobbing under the sole of Ada's boot, clutching her hand. She squinted through tears at the corpse across from her, and finally squeezed her eyes shut, having seen enough. "Please don't kill me." Her voice shook.

"That depends what you tell me and how fast you do it." Ada said. Her shadow stretched, long and skeletal, as the sun finally set. "Tell me who ordered you here."

"Hugo Chamberlain," Rhea said, pausing for a heavy swallow. Her voice carried a note of finality, as if uttering the name had signed her death warrant. "It was Hugo Chamberlain."

Ada scoffed. "Now what does a man like Chamberlain want with Leon Kennedy?"

"Nothing," said a male voice from behind Ada. The cold ring of what could have only been a shotgun barrel pushed her head forward. "But he does want something to do with you."

* * *

Leon sought Chris out at the reception. They exchanged a shake, a brief clasp of hands at the chest and a quick hug with the other arm.

"Congratulations, man," Leon said.

"Thanks," Chris said, with a puff of breath. "Glad that's over." There weren't many men who towered over Leon that didn't play professional basketball, but Chris was among them, powerful and broad. His facial expressions tended towards the choleric, with a heavy brow and a natural frown.

Leon laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. It was like clapping a cinder block. "I was starting to wonder if you needed a paper bag. Got pretty pale."

"Crowds aren't my thing," Chris shook his head, cocking a embarrassed half-smile. "Thanks for coming, Leon. Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it."

A woman wearing a blue dress, pretty and pale, tapped Chris on the shoulder. They exchanged a hug and brief pleasantries, when Chris remembered his manners.

"Sorry. Leon, this is Jamie; Jamie, Leon."

"Nice to meet you." Jamie said, tucking her hair behind her ear, nervous. Leon had been the victim of many "accidental" set-ups, and this was a set-up.

"Pleasure's all mine." Leon said, glancing at Chris with a flat expression that said _I know what you're doing, and I'm not sure I approve yet_.

"I'm gonna make the rounds," Chris said, with false enthusiasm, jabbing his thumb back in the direction of the main table, "it was good seeing you, Leon." He gave Jamie a smile and a familiar tap on the shoulder, and left.

After a beat of silence, she turned to Leon, the blonde curls that had escaped her updo bouncing around her face.

"So I'm not really good at this," she said in a blurt, "but didn't I see you on TV at one point? It is _killing_ me."

Leon shrugged. "Depends on the show, I suppose."

"Ha, ha. I meant on the news." She said. "Long time ago. The incident in…" She groped for the right name, but couldn't find it. "The President's daughter. Wasn't that you?"

Leon's smile faded. "Spain. Unfortunately. At least I've aged well."

"That's an understatement," she said.

Leon laughed and raised an eyebrow. "And you say you're no good at this."

Her laughter ended with a sigh. "But seriously... that was really impressive. I'm not sure if it applies, but - thanks for your service."

Leon smiled with a humble, noncommittal shrug that suggested it was all in a day's work. "That's very kind of you. You want something to drink?"

"I wasn't really going to, but I could be convinced, if that's an offer."

"That's convenient, because it's an offer if I can convince you to."

Jamie smiled at him, color rising on her cheeks. She went to speak and then started laughing again, bashful. "I _swear_ you're not the first man I've ever talked to. God, this is embarrassing." She ordered a Jack and Coke from the bartender and sat on a stool beside him. They talked over the loud music and the swell of happy chatter for the better part of a half hour, only separated by Jamie leaving to participate in traditional activities, activities that included flying bouquets and garter belts, both of which Leon was happy to dodge.

* * *

Ada turned her head, slowly, but said nothing.

"Drop your gun," the man said. Like Rhea and the man she'd shot, he had a deep southern accent, twangy and alien to Ada's ears. "And any other explosives you got on you. Slowly."

Ada complied. She tossed her pistol to the ground with an angular, noisy clatter, and raised her hands.

"That's it," she lied.

The man made a low noise in his throat. "Bullshit."

"You wanna frisk me?" Ada asked.

The man ignored her. "How bad are you hurt?" He asked around Ada's back to Rhea.

"My hand is fucked," she sobbed, clutching the wrist of her injured side. "God damn it. She killed Eli, Gabe." She sniffled, and her voice cracked. "Just shot him..."

"Damn..." the man said. "I'm sorry, Ree." He turned back to Ada. "I should blow your fucking brains out."

"Let me know where to send the flowers." Ada said.

"Shut up," the man said, pushing her head forward with the barrel of his gun. "Rhea, hold her. I gotta call this in, then we can get you patched up."

"What?" Rhea asked, in protest, holding up her injured hand. " _Look at this!"_

The man gestured to Ada's pistol, gleaming dark gunmetal in the dim, orange-black light of the sunset. "Go on. Just for a minute."

Rhea scooped the pistol up, almost dropped it thanks to the slick of blood on her good hand, and aimed it at Ada's face.

"I should blow a hole right in between those dirty ugly fucking slant eyes of yours." Rhea snarled. "Cunt."

"Which one was Eli?" Ada asked. "All you wannabe Neo Nazi peons look the same to me when there's a hole in your head."

Rhea glowered at her and pressed her lips together, pistol barrel against Ada's forehead. Ada locked eyes with her. If weakness had a smell, this girl was rank with it. All anger and impotent emotion, no close.

"Go on, Rhea," Ada said, her voice a low, challenging whisper. "Hold me."

" _I'm gonna fuckin' shoot her!_ " Rhea screamed.

Behind them, the man with the shotgun dialed a phone number on a touch pad – beep, boop, beep beep, boop. Brrrrrrrr. Brrrrrrr. "You do that, you'll wish you shot yourself instead, when Hugo gets through with you. Just ignore her."

Rhea squeezed the trigger, just slightly, her hand shaking. Then she abruptly let go, looking all at once ashamed and disappointed.

"You're no soldier. This mercenary gig wasn't your idea, was it?" Ada asked.

Rhea looked up at her, snarling. "Excuse me?"

"You followed him into it, didn't you? This Eli character. The dead one."

Ada glanced back. The man with the shotgun was pacing, talking to someone on the phone, his back dangerously close to being turned to her.

"Yeah, we got her. Yeah. Y… yeah, I think so." A pause. "Two. One's in front of me with a hole in his head, not sure where the other is. She threw him off the building."

Rhea took a deep breath, said, "You don't know anything about me. _Or Eli._ "

"I know you're holding a pistol that needs my fingerprint to fire." Ada said, low and pleasant. It wasn't true, but it made Rhea turn it away from her to look, and Ada saw her opening. Ada stuttered forward, kicked her in her lower stomach, and then Rhea crumpled over, Ada slammed her knee straight up into her nose, without touching her foot to the floor. The crunch of breaking cartilage was low and sickening. Ada grabbed her gun out of Rhea's hand, and slammed into her hip-first, knocking her to the ground.

"What the fuck?"

The man turned, dropped his phone, the display cracking into a spiderweb of a hundred pieces. He leveled his shotgun, but Ada was faster. She squeezed off three rapid-fire shots, one into his shoulder, one into his neck, and one beside his eye. She turned the gun on the woman on the ground, who held up her hands as if to block her face, and emptied the last two rounds into her chest. The slide of her gun cocked back, the clip empty, ejecting smoke into the billowing night air.

His lifeless body fell with a hard thump, Rhea's arms drifted, gentle and dreamlike, down to the ground, and once again Ada backed away from the spreading Rorschach of blood.

"Hello? Virgil? Virgil, answer me." The voice was no more than a quiet buzz, blinking insistently into the dark.

Ada scooped the phone up, with a feigned sigh of exertion. " _Phew._ Sorry about that, Virgil is indisposed at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?"

"You are a fucking piece of work."

"So I've been told."

"You're going to regret this. I promise you."

"Give it up," Ada said. "Your woman here just happened to let it slip that you're not here for Kennedy, you're here for me. I know your game."

"We'll see about that. Let's talk business." The woman said. Ada heard a lighter spark, and there was a pause and a soft crackle through the other end of the line. "I know you killed four of my men. I'm not happy about that."

"Five." Ada responded, kneeling to rifle through Virgil's pockets. Nothing of use. "Does this mean we're not friends?"

The woman laughed, a wretched sound that started quietly and ended as a gloating cackle. "Oh, no, no. But we're about to become real good friends. _Real_ good. Look in the building beside you."

"I took care of them for you," Ada said, "that makes five."

The woman was silent. "I'm sure you think you have this all figured out."

"Your peons said Chamberlain wants me alive." Ada started walking towards the edge from where she'd come, ringed by metal lattice work and ladders. "There's nobody left here to _take_ me alive, so I figure I'll leave you to your little rooftop party, if you don't mind."

"That's true," the woman said, "you can walk away. But if you decide to, your daughter – Charlotte?" The name froze Ada in mid-stride, sent her heart lurching in her chest, blood tingling with a sudden electric current of dread. "She may have some issues doing the same."

* * *

Leon drifted over to give his regards to the bride. This was a vital part of the wedding self-extraction plan: chat with the groom, chat with the bride, let people see you in the common area, find someone cute to talk a little but not _too much_ with, then disappear before it got too late, or someone asked you to take pictures in one of those goofy photo booths. It was too late for that last part, however. He'd have to ask Sherry for a copy of the print so he could destroy it.

Jill was busy receiving a gift from a small, frail brunette woman and a larger man who floated nearby, aimless and awkward. When they left, Leon approached. When she spotted him, Jill beamed in his direction, and to his surprise, stood to give him a hug. Leon had to bend down to return it. She was an uncommonly pretty brunette woman with the most beautiful crystal blue eyes Leon had ever seen on anyone in real life. She was short in stature, but was infamous for her tenacious, hellishly tough spirit, but to Leon she had been nothing but sweet and kind.

"Gorgeous as ever," Leon said, looking her over. She was glowing the way women did when they were truly happy, and he was glad to see it. "Congratulations, Jill. This is really wonderful. You guys are great together."

She shrugged, though the smile on her face said she probably wanted to split from happiness. "I _guess_ ," she said, "thanks Leon. And thank you for being here. We're really happy you could come." Leon offered up his glass and she clinked hers against it.

After saying his goodbyes, Leon left to retrieve his jacket from the coat check by the door. After shoving one arm in a sleeve, his eyes drifted to the main table where Chris returned with a slice of cake on a plate, and presented it to Jill. He sat beside her, and when she took it from him, pulled her onto his lap. She offered him a forkful of cake and he declined it with a shake of his head.

Leon had started to look away, uncomfortable staring at what had turned into a private moment. While everybody danced and drank and sang, attention devoted to their revelry, a subtle gesture caught his eye; Chris' hand drifted to Jill's belly, rubbed it with a tenderness he didn't think the man possessed. Her dress was cut to conceal it, but there was a telling bump starting to swell from where the flat of her abdomen used to be. From the looks of it, she wouldn't be able to conceal it much longer.

Jill yawned and snuggled down against her husband's shoulder. They watched the party together in comfortable silence.

Leon didn't consider himself a man of extraordinary sentimentality, but it was hard to remain unmoved by a happy ending for two people who deserved it so badly.

* * *

Ada took in a deep breath and stilled herself. Her knees suddenly felt less than steady.

"Hear that?" The woman laughed at Ada's silence, the smile obvious in her voice.  
"Peace and quiet. Sounds like I finally found somethin' that shut you up."

"She's a _child."_ Ada hissed.

"She's _your_ child," the woman responded, her voice crackling and faint over the whipping night air. "Big risk, doing what you do and trying to have a family at the same time. Looks like the reward wasn't worth it for this one."

Ada's mind blazed with questions. She wanted to threaten the woman's life, tell her that if she even looked at Charlie cross-eyed, every way she'd flay her tendons from her bones and hang her with them. She didn't.

 _"_ You're scum," Ada said, "all of you."

The woman laughed. "Don't be mad, dearheart! Everyone's luck runs out sometime. Now – you need to listen to me and listen _very_ carefully. Every hour you're delayed, your pretty little daughter is gonna lose something she'll miss. One of her toes, maybe. Then her fingers. Then when those are gone, we'll start on her teeth-"

" _Stop._ " Ada snapped. She turned, the bootfalls of three more men alerting her to their arrival behind her, guns drawn.

"I expect your full cooperation. I wouldn't try to run if I were you." The woman said, "Or if I were Charlotte."

"And if I cooperate?"

The phone call disconnected.

Ada threw the phone down with a testy flick of her wrist, and put her hands up again. It went against the very imprint in her DNA to surrender; her body tensed up to jolt back, to throw a knee or a kick. Do _something._

Convincing it to not as they rounded, three men she was sure wouldn't have made it out alive if circumstances were different, was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. Her muscles twitched in protest.

"Get it over with," she said. "But if you hurt her-"

One of the men grabbed her by the hair and punched her straight in the eye; the world disappeared under a sharp, angry blast of pain, and then everything went dim. Something was pulled over her face.

* * *

Leon said goodbye to Claire, who was already drunk. She was singing along to a popular song by a popular boy band from the late 90s, with a group of other similarly drunk women.

"WAIT WAIT WAIT! Wait wait. Wait." Claire yelled over the music, and dragged Leon by his arm to the bar through a sea of bodies. She forced him to do a parting shot of something disgusting that tasted similar to how some cleaning products smelled. When she was drunk, her Texan drawl finally came out in full force, _why_ and _I_ both became _ahh_. It was cute, sort of.

"Don't be a stranger," Claire said, planting a sloppy kiss that smelled like whiskey on his cheek. "You've got my number! Use it!"

Leon edged between people, dodging men in suitshirts with the sleeves rolled up and women in dresses and sweaty makeup, and stepped out into the night. The street was dark and damp, sliced through with a ribbon of chill, unusual for Texas, but it felt good against his skin after being packed in with so many people for so long. He paused and sucked a deep, cold breath down into his lungs, released it into a cartoon bubble of steam.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Leon looked over – Jamie was near the curb, her hands in the front pockets of her coat. The moisture in the air made the curls around her face fluff out a bit. She looked like a cartoon character, under the halo of the streetlight in the fine mist.

"Well," Leon shrugged, "right now they include not listening to another song by N*Sync."

Jamie laughed. "Hey now, that's the soundtrack of my college days."

"And mine, unfortunately." Leon said. "Trying to get some fresh air?"

"Cab." Jamie said. She twisted her foot to expose the heel of her shoe. "The hotel would be sort of a slog in these bad boys."

Leon nodded, pretending to be concerned about her shoes. "Where are you staying?"

"The Hyatt," Jamie said.

"Hm… opposite direction from me," Leon said, "or I'd offer to split it with you."

Jamie shrugged, hesitated, and threw the pitch first. "We could still... split it. If you want."

Leon considered this for a brief moment. "Sure." He moved closer, and she smiled. "Make sure you get home safe, that kind of thing."

Leon's sentence was punctuated by a terrified crescendo of a scream ending in a sound that was partway between a crash, a splatter, and a crunch. Jamie backed against the wall with her hands over her nose and mouth.

He was frozen, but only for a second.

"Stay here," Leon told her, "okay?"  
Jamie nodded rapidly, with an expression of shock. Leon reached under his jacket and drew his pistol, checking both ways before running across the street. His footsteps echoed back at him.

It was a man in a black business suit, lying on a pile of trash bags, all of his limbs broken in ways that made Leon's stomach do a flip. The man's skull was split in at least two places, fluid leaking out into his short, dark hair, pasting it to his head in a glistening mat. The stench of human blood and bile and gore was overpowering; it made Leon want to be sick, rolling over his brain like a signal he wasn't able to ignore or will away. Leon put the lapel of his suit jacket over his nose, and lowered his pistol.

"Sir, can you hear me?" Leon asked. Doubtful – he was dead as dead could be, but there was protocol that had to be followed. Leon holstered his pistol and kneeled beside him. "Sir?"

One eye bulged from the man's crushed socket, blind. The cushion of garbage bags was enough that he didn't splatter on the cement, but it didn't save his life.

"Call 911!" Leon yelled across the street at Jamie. She fumbled with her phone, dialing the numbers and drifting forward in concern. Leon held his hand up. "Stay over there until your cab comes." Jamie complied without protest.

There was a patch on the sleeve of the man's jacket. Leon turned on his cell phone's flashlight to get a better look. Vital dark red blood was everywhere, and it glittered and glistened under the light.

The patch was also red, with a crossed set of black embroidered swords under a crucifix. Leon recognized it immediately – it was the callsign of the Bannermen of Purity, a notorious but thankfully small Neo Nazi outfit that had taken root in the barefoot down-home Evangelist church culture of rural West Virginia. Leon had tangled with the Bannermen of Purity before, a very, very long time ago during a Federal drug raid gone awry down in the Appalachias that was a part of his training. What they were doing here, now, was a mystery, but one that made him uneasy and licked against his lizard brain like a warning. It made no sense, and when things made no sense to Leon, it meant that a piece of the story was still missing.

Leon gave the man's body one final look, and stood up from his crouch, knees creaking. A tiny sliver of silver, tucked inside the man's jacket pocket, refracted a spark of under the roaming glare of Leon's flashlight. Slow and careful, Leon drew closer, touched the inside of the man's suit jacket with his fingers, and lifted it to get a better look.

A medical-grade canister of some kind, the size of a pill bottle. Scuffed but otherwise undamaged by the fall, made of thick glass, capped on each end with brushed steel. Inside, a blob of what looked like jelly, the color of amber. The blob was flattened against the inside of the canister nearest to the man's body, undulating, folding itself over. Leon watched it, fished a rumpled napkin out of his pocket, and used it to grasp the canister between his thumb and middle finger on each end. He stood with it held at a distance. The blob stopped moving, sliding down to the bottom of the canister where it laid at rest in a quivering heap.

Leon looked up into the night, the skyline suddenly threatening and ominous, like a row of jagged teeth in a huge mouth ready to close around him at any moment. A cab pulled up, bright yellow under the buttery street lamplight. Jamie hesitated, and got in. The car pulled away into the night.

Leon stood and dialed a number from muscle memory with his thumb, watching over his shoulders.

Ingrid's voicemail picked up. "Hunnigan, I need you. I know it's late, but this is important. Pick up."

A moment or so later, a click interrupted the silence. An unmistakably male grumble in the background preceded a small yawn. "I'm here." Hunnigan said. "What's going on?"

"Sorry to call so late, but it's important. I'm not sure," Leon said, "but I've got the dead body of a B.o.P laying right in front of me outside the Redfield wedding in Texas. He was carrying something in his jacket, and from the looks of it, it's some kind of biological agent."

There was shuffling on the other end of the line. "It's work," she whispered, and Leon heard a door shut. "A biological agent?" Hunnigan repeated. "Are you sure?"

"That's what it looks like." Leon repeated. "I was a criminal justice major, though, so take that with a whole shaker of salt."

"Kind of far out of the way for the B.o.P. What would they want with the Redfields, anyway?"

"A few hundred miles out of the way of their usual stomping grounds," Leon said, "and not their normal M.O., either. But outside this building at this time, where basically the entirety of the BSAA brass is having a party… It's too coincidental. Has to be connected."

"Let me guess, your cop Spidey-Sense is tingling?"

Leon laughed, despite himself. "When has that ever been wrong, huh?"

"I agree." She sighed. "I'm going to head in. I need to your documentation to be _spotless_ , Leon. Everything, times, dates, names, descriptions. You've called the local P.D., right?"

"First thing I did," With a frown, Leon checked the bottom of his shoe; it came off the ground with a sick sucking noise, the sole caked with a stringy layer of congealing blood. He mumbled a curse.

"We'll get the local field office to clear a plane. I need you on it with that sample inside two hours. Get some sleep on the plane, if you can."

"You got it," Leon said, turning the canister over in his hand. The blob was still, outside of gravity, which dragged it down the side of the case like a snail with a glossy mucous trail.

Leon hung up his phone. The music from the reception hall played into the night, booming and muffled. Leon hovered over the broken body; it was leaking sordid mist into the cool night air from the man's multiple open wounds. Leon's eyes transfixed on the man's patch. He felt it burning a hole in his mind, like trying to remember a fact that was just outside your reach, dancing, taunting.

That feeling, like the breath of an intruder, tickled the back of Leon's neck again. He had learned to trust that feeling; it had saved his life too many times to count even on the entire party's worth of fingers, but that had never meant that he welcomed it.

Across the street, they danced, while Leon stood ready in the mist and the dark.


End file.
